Changing
by zorro x
Summary: Post-Series. Spike, Angel, and Ilyria try to deal with an empty reality. About denial, coping mechanisms, and how many ways one wound can hurt.


**Changing  
**

The club lights flash overhead casting everything into a maelstrom of red and black and color, everything spinning in a way that's not like hell, but close enough. Bodies press in on every side of him, grinding and bouncing, and he can smell blood rising up around him, submerging him, covering him. The bass beat thrums through him easily, readily, in the same rhythm of a pounding heartbeat. Spike grins, but it's not a real grin. He's showing teeth.

Calm down, that's Angels advice. Take it easy. Relax. But Angel wakes up screaming every night and then some, and drinks much more than is good for him. It's not like Spike can't respect a healthy vice, but he doesn't think Angel's in the position to be handing out advice. Not anymore. Moving like this- not quite dancing, more moving to a sort of communal heartbeat in the hope of drowning out blood calling- this is a sort of drug that's far more attractive than Angel's brand of stoic stuck-up-the-ass heroism.

None of them are heroes anymore, and Spike's fine with that.

The men's room has a line longer than he's willing to sit still for, so Spike goes out back for some quiet. He has already lifted the lit cigarette to his lips when he notices her, watching him with the sort of wide-eyed omnipotence that never fails to make him uneasy. He asks, and damned if he doesn't sound more defensive than he meant to.

You left Angel alone, She notes, with no judgment or praise, but he can detect an almost note of- _something-_ in her voice. Approval? Damnation?

I don't see you sitting at home baby-sitting him either, Spike says, and puffs out a breath of smoke that makes him feel rather draconic, and almost human. So don't go blaming me. Blame isn't the right word, not really, but Spike's mind leaps there automatically. She tilts her head to the side, brown hair swinging down her face. She doesn't look normal, but not abnormal, either.

You care for him, She says, and this is an accusation no matter how blank her voice. You would grieve if he died.News flash, love, already dead, Spike says, and grinds the end of his cigarette under a boot. He knows he should call them fags, in proper English tradition, but he's spent a long time out of the mother country, and if he's perfectly honest with himself, he'd lost the accent a while back, too. But he's not quite willing to give up his past.

Ilyria doesn't say anything else, and Spike reenters the heat of the club without a backwards glance. He doesn't owe her anything, and isn't about to let her convince him he does.

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You've been feeding. His voice is flat without emotion, and Spike gives a cocky grin even though something in his gut tightens in what _isn't _fear.

Maybe. What's it to you? Thought you'd given up playing the hero. It isn't a question so much as a challenge, and Spike can't say he's relieved when Angel deflates.

There's enough weariness in that voice, strong enough hints of too much sacrifice without enough rewards, that Spike finds the obnoxious answer he was going to give slip away at his lips. They are all old- very old- and Spike's tired of playing the child.

Why not? It doesn't matter in the end. They're all here for so little time- we're vampires. It's out job to nibble on the edges of humanity. And it's not like we're playing heroes, not again.

Angel just looks at him, just looks, and Spike's grateful Ilyria's gone again, or she'd break this conversation down into everything they won't say, and that might ruin them. Spike can't meet that tired gaze for long, and mutters a quick excuse about needing a smoke, and leaves his grandsire there, staring at the spot where Spike had been as though something had broken in him. Spike can't quite manage to feel guilty- Angel's been broken for a long time.

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You're never Fred anymore, Angel tells Ilyria one day, and she looks at him with those strange eyes. Wesley told me not to be, She answers, and ducked her head. It is- confusing. I was Fred only twice- for our parents, and when he died. He loved her, That last is added as an afterthought, and there's a brief tinge of regret in that implacable voice.

Angel doesn't say anything either, and the silence is uncomfortable.

Wolfram and Hart still after you? Spike asked quietly, more to break the silence of the room than anything else.

Us, Spike. Angel corrected harshly, and stormed out without answering. The door slammed heavily, and Spike looked and Ilyria. She looked to be lost in space, but it was hard to tell sometimes, with those eyes. Spike wondered if she thought about Wesley.

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He had once tried to explain to Dawn that heroes always died in a burst of glory, and there was nothing to be done about it. This was during the summer Buffy died, back when he was still tethered to something, even if it was only a little girl and a promise he'd already broken. Now he tries to explain the same thing to Angel, but he doesn't listen. Maybe he can't.

What about quitting? He snarls. Can heroes quit? There is a self-mocking smirk dancing across his lips, and Spike wants, desperately, to hit him.

Spike says, and sticks his tongue out just a little, waggling his eyebrows. Not real heroes. You and me, we were never real heroes. We did what we did because we were told to. To prove something. It was never about saving people.

Angel does hit him, and Spike spits out a little blood, but that doesn't change anything and Angel knows it.

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Spike creeps into the dark room to find Ilyria already standing over the bed. They're in a cheap motel room with the DeSoto parked out front, and little strands of sunlight peek through the edges of the curtains, illuminating the room just enough to see by. Careful not to step in the way of these razor lights, Spike picks his way over to her.

Angel is covered in sweat and tossing and turning, and for a moment he looks human. He's lost weight again, gotten back down to his trim and young-looking self, and Spike guesses you can predict Angel's unhappiness by how much weight he's lost. Ilyria's peering down at him clinically, but she swivels her head at Spike's entrance.

You have come to wake him, She announces, as if he didn't know this.

Someone has to, Spike defends, feeling a little bit sheepish and a bit more defensive. We can't all stand over and enjoy his pain. Whispers Angel. You are angered, Ilyria notes. Her hair is blue again, skin rippled and changed.

He won't bloody well let go! Spike snarls, and surprises himself by the edge to his anger. He thinks he's the only one whose ever lost anything! I spent a hundred years with Drusilla and lost _her, _and I'm not the one crying! Angel mutters. Oh, Wes... Something tightens in Ilyria's face, or maybe that's just imagination.

You think he should not love them, Ilyria noted.

No! I just... He needs to get over it already! Get on with life! Spike was spitting mad. They were humans! He didn't even like them that much! Why does it matter so fucking much? That should have been a _bloody, _but Spike can't bring himself to care.

He is grieving, Ilyria notes. Do you not also grieve?Of course I do! Just- Panicked, panicked. Fred? Fred... Tears were leaking gently from his eyes.

_Not that much_ was what Spike would never admit to. He loved more deeply than Angel, he had always told himself, more deeply than anyone. But he lost more easily, too. As if he hadn't spent the entire time without Buffy counting the days. As if Drusilla didn't haunt his fantasies, if not his nightmares.

But no, not like this.

Angel exhales, relaxing a little. Spike frowns at him, but he remembers Angel's son. Not like he'd _raised_ him. Not like he'd known him even so much as Spike had known Dawn... And Spike liked to think Dawn hadn't hated him as much as Conner had hated Angel.

Do you wish to wake him, still? Ilyria questions, Fred's face unreadable in the shadows.

Angel mutters. Spike says, and strides away. Let Angel list his dead- he has better things to do.

Angel's call echoes as he closes the door, and leaves Ilyria in there, watching.

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Angel woke up hungover more often than not, although it took a lot of alcohol to get a vampire that drunk. Today was no exception, and Spike cast not so much as a second glance in his direction as the older vampire settled himself uneasily at the table. He winced as Spike shoveled a mouthful of blood and rice crispies into his mouth, so Spike grinned and did it again.

The meal, if you could call it that, was silent. Spike was reading the comics and shoveling his food steadily, while Angel winced and sipped at his mug of warm pig's blood. Finally, Angel broke the uneven silence.

You changed your clothes, He announced, and Spike glanced up at him.

Every night, Spike agreed with the sort of grin that said he knew what Angel was thinking but would make him beg for it.

No, I mean- your wearing something new. A different style. Angel frowned.

Have for several weeks, mate, Spike announced with a grin. Where've you been? This is a rhetorical question. He knows where Angel's been- lost in the graveyard of his memory. Spike can't quite bring himself to hold it against him, but he's not ready to forgive yet, either. He settles for forgetting.

Huh. I never noticed. I... Like it. Angel's frowning in a puzzled way, but it's the most real he's been in a while, and if he still looks like hell and if his voice is still scratchy, Spike can ignore that and pretend things are _normal, _or as normal as they'd ever been.

It was time for a change, Spike said, and shrugged. Ilyria had noticed, and her comment that humans changed to quickly and so easily, and didn't they get so lost? Had been greeted with a bit more of explanation, if a bit of a sour one as he forced himself yet again to expand on the fact that he was a vampire, not a person. Not a man.

Angel said nothing else, and shrugged, so Spike turned back to his breakfast, and the beckoning image of Garfield, being predictably lazy and hungry and greedy.

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It is 11 months, five days, and eight hours after that final battle when Angel looks at Spike and says he's leaving. For good, He adds, as if any thing's ever final if you've got an eternity.

Taking a walk in the sunshine, then? Spike asks with a smirk, not believing really that anything about this almost-domestic situation with the three of them will ever end.

No, Spike, Angel says levelly, forcing him to meet his grandsire's (ah, who was kidding-) his sire's gaze. I'm leaving.

Once upon a time Spike would have laughed and joked and struggled and hated Angel with all his undead heart, but they're all a little bit older, so Spike just stares at him. You going to Rome? He asks finally, trying to pretend it doesn't matter, trying to pretend he's not screaming, just a little bit, for the things he'll never have.

Angel breaks the eye-contact, and looks away. He says. Buffy called. I have to- I can't live like this forever.

Spike nods. Go, then, He says, a bit more harshly than intended. Take your issues, and your grief, and your fucking nightmares and get out. Let Buffy deal with you.What will you do? Angel asks, as if he cares. But quietly, guiltily.

I dunno, Spike sighs, and runs his fingers through his brown curls. Maybe I'll take Ilyria up on that pet' thing. Or go back to Europe, maybe. I don't know. What is there for a souled vampire to do? He's not a hero, and he's not a killer, and he's now got the rest of eternity to do... what?

Take care of yourself, Angel says, and pulls him into a strong and awkward hug. I'll see you on the other end of eternity, I suppose. Tell Ilyria I said goodbye.You miss him. Ilyria cocked her head to the side and said, I feel your grief. I taste it. It is...Repulsive, yes, I know, Spike interrupted. I don't miss that asshole anyhow, He lies through his teeth. Wanna screw?You are trying to change the subject and forget, Ilyria said. And then, Yes. I would like to have sex with you. You are very pleasing to the eyes.

And that's all she wrote. The End? Not really. Just another pit stop on the road to eternity.


End file.
